


fill in the blanks

by mindshelter



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Memory Loss, dork wonder being too smitten to function, this is so corny fknvskfjnv don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindshelter/pseuds/mindshelter
Summary: “You?” Tim blurts.Holy shit.“You’re Kon?”A nod. “Are you in any pain?” he asks again.Kon’s skin is sun-kissed, cheekbones dusted with a fine smattering of freckles; he is, without exaggeration, the prettiest person Tim has ever seen. “No, I’m—great,” he says, fidgeting. “Do you, uh, come here often?”Kon raises a brow. “To the medbay?” he intones. “Definitely more often than I’d prefer.”
Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 46
Kudos: 499





	fill in the blanks

**Author's Note:**

> im SO tired lol pls enjoy

“Good news,” Gar says. “Your scans look great. Everything should come back to you by tomorrow, so you’re ready to go. Kon texted to let us know that he’ll be here soon to pick you up.”

After taking a few seconds to himself, Tim nods. Gar claps him on the back warmly before leaving Tim to his own devices.

Tim has no idea who Kon is, though if Gar—who is _green_ , like the dude you can find on a bag of frozen peas—is telling the truth, he will soon enough.

Tim is puzzled as to how he knows something so inane while someone had to tell him what month and year it is. That he’d recently turned _twenty-four_. He was briefed after being deemed coherent enough to retain information a few hours ago, but he’s not sure what to think.

Every visitor so far has failed to give him any conflicting information, nor did any of their answers seem too rehearsed. In fact, they appeared more than happy to be bombarded with questions. The man who introduced himself as Bart just started laughing— _classic Tim_ , he’d said. Cassie assured him no one was wearing a wire, and there were only cameras in the infirmary hallways, for security. She offered to take him up to his actual room, but Tim had politely declined.

No one is getting _him_ to no secondary location.

Everyone he’s met so far has been kind, so Kon is probably nice. Tim might not remember a goddamn thing, but he's sure the usual Tim isn't an idiot. If Kon is here to pick him up, so to speak, Tim is going to have to ask this guy twice the amount of security questions _. I have to be smart about this_ , he muses, picking at the starchy fabric of his cot.

The overhead lights are offensively bright, doing his headache no favors; Tim paws around for the bedside controls to dim the room, exhaling with relief when the brightness halves.

Tim is on the fence about believing he’s a _superhero_. It does, however, make plenty of sense; Cassie generated a few sparks of electricity at her fingertips to demonstrate, and Bart phased through every object Tim directed him to. 

Tim, apparently, doesn’t have any powers, but he does have a plethora of scars—some old, some fresh.

And _muscles_. Tim pokes at his triceps; he’s only known them for a few hours and he’s already proud.

So, if they’re all telling the truth, Tim is supposed to be a badass. Pretty sweet.

He’s inclined to wonder, though; do badasses get walloped by a psionic blast to the point of memory loss? The body camera footage they’d played for him looked _rough_.

Tim pats his head—and yeah, it still kind of hurts. They gave him something earlier to help with the pain, but it didn’t do away with the discomfort entirely.

Scooting to the medical bed’s headboard, Tim brings his legs up to his chest, propping his chin up onto his knees. Kon hasn’t arrived yet, so he supposes he ought to keep brainstorming; Tim should ask him for photographic proof. Earlier, the Titans team pulled up some pictures for him to pore through, plus a mirror for reference. Images are easily doctored, these days—but it’s significantly harder to remain consistent across multiple sources.

But if he does know Kon, maybe seeing and talking to him will help jog Tim’s brain. He’s already sick of not knowing anything first-hand. He can recall names and items and concepts, but is drawing a blank on everything else.

Right on cue, the medbay doors slide open, in stereo with any intelligible thought Tim might’ve had promptly getting flushed down the drain.

Except for one: _Holy fucking shit._

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” a man says, sounding truly apologetic.

It only takes four broad strides for him to make his way to Tim’s cot. His clothes are likely rumpled from rushing to get here, and his hair is a mess, too, the longer parts curly and windswept while the sides of his head are buzzed short.

He adds, frustrated, “I tried to head over as soon as I heard, but there was another emergency over in New Orleans. Duty calls and shit.” The man seats himself onto a stool left by the bedside, maneuvering out of the sling of his bag to set aside on the ground. “Are you okay?”

Tim doesn’t know. Is he? The man has a pleasant voice, deep and expressive; Tim’s been too fixated on _how_ it sounds to actually comprehend any of it.

This is bad; Tim needs to keep a clear head.

Brow furrowing at the lack of response, the man adds, “Oh, right. Introductions.” He dons a heavy frown as he says, “Hi, Tim. I’m Conner Kent.”

Conner. Kon. Is he—“ _You_?” Tim blurts. “You’re Kon?”

A nod. “Are you in pain?” he asks again.

“No, I’m—great,” Tim says, despite the low-grade headache. He fidgets. “Do you, uh, come here often?”

Kon raises a brow. “To the medbay?” he intones. “Definitely more often than I’d prefer.”

“Cool,” Tim says, even though it is definitely not cool whatsoever. “Is Kon short for Conner, or something?”

Kon genuinely considers the question. “Kon was my name before I took up ‘Conner,’” he ponders, left hand moving upwards to tap his chin. Tim’s heart sinks when he sees it: there’s a silver band around Kon’s ring finger. He must be engaged. Or _married_. “So Conner is, in a way, long for Kon.”

“Neat,” Tim mumbles, cheeks growing hot. His grip on his calves tightens.

He shouldn’t be surprised; in the short time he’s been awake, Tim has figured out that he’s quite adept with context clues. Kon is _gorgeous_ , is definitely a superhero, too—and he’s handsome. An all-around catch. 

Tim hopes whoever Conner is with understands how good they have it.

He glares at the wall ahead of him. If they don’t, Tim plans to kick some sense into them the second he remembers who they are.

A large hand clasps over his shoulder, and Tim jolts from the sudden contact. Kon looks faintly distraught by the reaction, pulling back halfway and then tentatively bringing his hand back.

“Hey,” Kon says, so gently, “I know you’re probably confused as hell and stressed right now, but I’ve got your back, okay? If there’s anything I can do to make it better, just ask.”

Fuck. How is Tim supposed to reply to that? _No, Conner, I’m just upset because the ridiculously nice guy I’d be happy to climb like a tree is taken._ “Okay,” is what he ends up saying, even managing a small smile. “Thanks.”

Kon’s answering grin is nearly blinding, gaze so soft and fond Tim has to resist the urge to squirm.

His hand starts to slide down Tim’s arm, all the way down to Tim’s wrist before his palm opens to tangle their fingers together.

What.

Tim retracts immediately. “You—what—you can’t _do_ that.”

Kon’s expression decays into befuddlement. “What?” he whispers, now-bare fingers flexing.

“This isn’t right,” Tim insists. As nice as that brief half-second felt, he refuses to be part of an extramarital affair.

Wilting, Kon says, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Oh God. Combined with the hangdog expression, he looks truly wounded, too, trying to tug at Tim’s heartstrings.

What a sleazebag.

“You can’t figure out why cheating on your spouse is wrong, asshole?” Tim says, incensed. He points at Kon’s ring. “Especially by taking advantage of a person with memory loss. I’m not going through with this. I have _dignity_.”

Instead of appearing the least bit defensive, Kon blinks _one-two-three times_ in rapid succession and purses his lips.

And then he bursts out laughing.

“This isn’t funny,” Tim grouses, when Kon fails to stop within ten seconds.

“Oh, I promise it absolutely is,” Kon counters, clutching at his abdomen. He wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “Holy shit, did _no one_ tell you? Tim, sunshine. Light of my life. You’re so dumb.”

“How am _I_ the stupid one here.” 

Kon holds up his left hand and says, “I’m engaged, actually.”

They’re arguing in circles. “Same principle applies.”

“With that bit covered,” Kon says, smiling again, “wanna guess who I’m engaged to? C’mon, smarty pants. The rest of the team must’ve at least told you that you’re a great detective.”

He wriggles his fingers.

Tim’s eyes dart from Kon’s ring, to the shit-eating grin on his stupidly beautiful face. Gathers up the facts. Kon is here to pick him up, he looked so worried when he came in, he tried to hold Tim’s hand—

“Oh.” He’s blushing, he knows. “I’m—”

“You’re my fiancé,” Kon finishes for him. He grabs Tim’s hand again, and this time they mirror one another, fingers lacing together in tandem.

Kon’s hand is so warm. The ring pressing against Tim’s skin is doing terrible things to his heartbeat.

“Did I—did I propose to you?” Tim asks, awed. And Conner said _yes_? Is he in the twilight zone?

“You did.” Kon’s thumb rubs idly over Tim’s base knuckles. “We actually bought rings for one another at about the same time—separately. Neither of us had a clue what the other was doing. I even bribed Cassandra and Steph over to my side with pie to keep their lips zipped.” Kon has to stop to let out a giggle every few words or so, and now that Tim isn’t morally outraged anymore, he’s certain he would stop at nothing to hear it again. “You accidentally found the ring _anyway_ even though I hid it in my room at the farm. Ended up taking a knee before I could.”

“I beat you,” Tim concludes proudly.

Kon’s eyes widen. “Non-amnesiac you said the exact same thing,” he says, amazed. Rapping a knuckle against Tim’s temple, he adds, “Guess you really are still perfectly intact. Good to know.”

“I have a ring too?”

“Yup, but you tend not to wear it when you’re in costume,” Kon confirms. “You tried wearing it like a pendant around your neck for a while, but got too paranoid about losing it.”

Tim nods. His eyes follow the sturdy column of Kon’s neck, tracing along a strong jawline. Pauses at the golden loops dangling from Kon’s lobes and helices. Kon’s skin is sun-kissed, cheekbones dusted with a fine smattering of freckles.

The sleeves of Kon’s hoodie are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a toned pair of forearms. It’s completely unfair; usually baggier clothing like hoodies and sweatshirts do a fantastic job at obscuring body shape, but even through the looser fabric Tim can easily tell how broad Kon is. God, he wants to jump his fiancé’s bones.

Kon looks amused, but Tim is too busy reeling to be indignant about it. “You thought I was married to someone else?”

“Maybe,” Tim mumbles. “Sorry for calling you an asshole.”

Kon waves it off. “You call me that when you _don’t_ have amnesia,” he says, tilting his head in thought. “Soo,” he prompts, “earlier, when you got all quiet… you got all mopey because I wasn’t single. Is that it?”

Right on the fucking money. Tim would get redder if it were possible.

Kon whoops. “God, this is—you are so cute. Husband-to-be, husband-to- _me_ ,” he singsongs, unravelling their joined hands so he can cradle the sides of Tim’s face instead. Tim is short-circuiting. “You’re so cute. Sunshine, do you have a crush on me?”

Since they’re together, Tim can say he thinks Kon is pretty without it being weird, right? Honey-voiced. The faintest laugh lines around his eyes; Kon must be such a bright, vibrant person. He must smile a lot. Does Tim make him smile?

If Tim tells the truth—

“Uh, yeah,” Tim says. “Who wouldn’t? I think you’ve got, uh, really amazing bone structure.”

Kon throws his head back and guffaws, bright and loud. He’d called Tim _sunshine_ , but Kon must’ve gotten it mixed up. He’s the star. Not Tim.

“Did the—um,” Tim asks, because he _has_ to know; he wants to know every stupid, mundane thing about this beautiful person, “did the same thing happen when we met? Did I like you right away?”

Kon snorts. “Oh, _God_ no,” he says, shaking his head. “We butted heads so often. I think for a good period of time we barely even liked each other. But what I can say is even back then, before we got better—is that we made a great team, and that we looked out for one another. I valued your opinion way before we even became best friends.”

Tim accepts the answer. They love each other now; that’s what matters most. “When did we meet?”

“You were fourteen. My age is a bit trickier, but we usually estimate it to have been around fifteen or sixteen.” Kon shrugs when Tim squints at him. “Long story. Anyway—we didn’t get together for years. We dated other people, needed to grow individually, get some fucking therapy, internalized homophobia, blah blah.” A pregnant pause. “But then!”

With rapt attention Tim crosses his legs and leans forward to absorb every detail; this is the part where Kon explains how they started _dating_. An incredible tenderness permeates through Kon’s expression. 

“We decided to give each other a shot when you were eighteen,” Kon says. One of his hands move to the back of Tim’s neck, firm and gentle. “You kissed me first. Just like this.”

And they’re _kissing_. Tim’s breath catches; it feels—it feels _amazing_ , like water down a parched throat, heating up magma-hot as it spreads into his bloodstream. It feels like coming home. It’s pure sense-memory that has Tim’s arms immediately come up to wrap around Kon’s neck, that has him opening up and pushing back to make the kiss deeper and wetter.

For the first time, Tim is overjoyed at being fuzzy on the details. It’s gifted him with the chance to learn all over again: the curve of Kon’s cupid’s bow. The softness of his lips, eager and pliant against Tim’s. The way Tim’s body buzzes all over, like he’s drunk. The heat, pooling at his gut.

Lightly pulling at Tim’s hair, Kon changes the angle. He swallows the broken-off keen sounding out of Tim’s throat by licking further into his mouth.

Another piece of Tim wants desperately to know how they grew up together, everything and anything that brought him to wanting to marry this man.

With the pad of his thumb pressed over Tim’s chin, index finger scraping against his jaw, Kon breaks the kiss. Tim tries to chase it but finds that he can’t move an inch. A mild pressure is surrounding his entire body, not uncomfortable, just strange—like being submerged neck-deep in water.

“Just like that,” Kon says, fingertip swiping the edge of Tim’s bottom lip. Tim shudders; he might flatline soon.

“You were a bit unclear,” Tim rasps, not trusting his voice not to crack. “Could you repeat the last bit?”

“Oooh, smooth talker alert,” Kon jokes. But he obliges, bending forward to brush their lips together again, featherlight and nothing more; Tim is still immobile, unable to reciprocate as much as he wants.

Tim has uttered a wealth of likely stupid shit since waking up—what’s one more? It’ll be amnesia-free Tim’s problem when he returns from his sojourn in la-la land. “I think you’re perfect and I want to climb you like a tree.”

And that does it—Kon clears his throat, glancing down to hide a slight flush. “Mr. Drake, I _do_ declare,” he says, mock-scandalized. “Ask me again when you’re better.”

The pressure wrapping around Tim’s limbs and torso disappears. He surges forward, catching his fiancé in a hug.

Pleased, Kon begins to hum a mindless tune, chest rumbling.

“Do I make you happy?”

Kon places a chaste kiss over Tim’s lips, travelling up—nose, between the eyebrows, and a lingering one on the forehead that lasts long enough for Tim to savor. “Yes,” he says, “more than anything else.”

“Fucking _lit_ ,” Tim says.

“Totally. We should head home,” he murmurs into Tim’s hair. “I’d ask you if there was anything you’d want to get from your room before we go, but that’s kind of redundant at the moment.”

“Oh. Do we live together?”

“Yeah.”

“That is _so_ cool.”

“I know, right?”

Well, it looks like he’s being transported to a secondary location after all. Fine by him.

Street smarts.

**Author's Note:**

> tim drake, massive dork, oh-so-clever but stupid, has used words like pwned/noob so it's only right that i let him say "fucking lit" at the ripe old age of 24
> 
> thanks for reading!


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